


Lost Without You

by cloudyjenn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post s4 fic, omg this was written like 9 years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 10:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10093058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudyjenn/pseuds/cloudyjenn
Summary: The last time Dean saw Castiel, he promised Dean he would hold off the attack of archangels. That was four years ago. Now, just when Dean thinks he's been given a second chance, a demon and Castiel's memory loss threaten to keep them apart for good.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am transferring older fics from LJ to AO3. This story was written almost a decade ago so if any characterization seems odd, that might be why. It's been lightly edited and given a new title because the last one was too long. 
> 
> The story is set after the end of season 4.

The day he shows up in the front foyer of St. Paul's in Norfolk, Nebraska, there is a terrible storm. It rips through town, breaking branches off the trees and ripping shingles from the roofs of over half the homes in town while dumping copious amounts of rain into an already overly saturated ground. Flash flood warnings go out on every channel and the national weather service later confirms a brief tornado touched down at the southeastern edge of town, but no one is killed and overall, it's a fairly normal severe weather event for that part of the country.

Even so, Father Philips can't help but feel this storm is somehow different. Outside the window of his small office, he watches the heavy black clouds roll in from the west until the entire sky lowers itself to the earth, drawing the horizon closer, and he hears ominous thunder rumble.

There is an energy in the air that Father Philips doesn't recognize, only knows it's zipping up his arms, raising the hairs at the back of his neck. He throws open the window, peering out, listening hard and hears nothing but the occasional distant roll of thunder. The world waits, like with any other storm, except the pause is heavier. Angrier. The heavens draw a breath, preparing to hurl down to the earth their violence and bruising punishment.

Then a bolt of lightning zigzags across the pitch black sky and a clap of thunder shakes the church down to its very foundation.

Seconds later, Father Philips hears the heavy front doors swing open. He hurries out of his office, down through the back hallway and through the sanctuary, past tall narrow stain glass windows into the vestibule. There is a man sitting on the floor, back against the front door. His hair is plastered wet against his skull and his bright colored eyes stare past Father Philips, blank with shock. Fear prickles at his spine, but Father Philips quickly shakes it off. This man has come to his church for help. He is one of the Father's flock now and he must do his duty.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly.

The man doesn't move or look at Father Philips, but he speaks and his voice is gruff and flat.

"I don't know."

His body is rigid, his hands clenched into the material of his dark pants. Father Philips takes a step closer and decides there is nothing in the man's eyes. No recognition or emotion. His heart constricts in his chest. Something is very wrong with this man.

"Do you know where you are, my son?"

"Not your son," the man suddenly gasps and he curls in on himself. "Father, please," he sobs.

He is now the direct opposite of the vacant creature who lay stiff and unfeeling on the floor. His face twists with pain and profound hurt. Reaching out with unsteady fingers, the man grabs Father Philips' arms and drags him close until he crashes to his knees. This close to him, Father Philips sees that the man's eyes are a piercing blue and are now bleak with desperate longing.

"Why, Father?"

"I don't know," Father Philips sputters, panicked. "Please calm yourself, my…please, shhh, you're safe now."

"No," the man moans and his eyes roll upwards under his eyelids. "Please, Father, help me."

"I don't…" With a deep breath, Father Philips steels himself, struggles to regain his control. "You're safe now," he says again. "I'll take care of you."

The man slumps in Father Philips' arms, clearly unconscious and with a twinge of guilt, Father Philips is relieved. It will make it easier to deal with the man and hopefully ease his suffering into dreamless oblivion for the time being. He carefully lays the man's head against the back of the door and stands, frantically searching the vestibule.

His eyes fall on the entrance to the cloakroom. He scrambles to his feet, the smooth soles of his black dress shoes sliding on the puddles of water collected around the man's still form and slips into the small closet. Grabbing an abandoned jacket, Father Philips smashes it into a firm ball and carefully lays the man on his back, placing the jacket under his head. Like this, the man is peaceful, his face expressionless again. It reminds Father Philips of too many funeral services and he shakes himself, trying to get rid of his gloomy thoughts.

He sees no blood, but takes a moment to run his hands over the man's body, checking for obvious injuries. The man is wearing a long crumpled trench coat, but Father Philips leaves it on. He is afraid to move his body too much, for fear of further damage. However, a moment later, he is convinced that whatever emotional trauma the man has suffered, physically, he is in no danger. Father Philips sits back on his heels and drags his cell phone from his pants pocket.

After a moment of indecision, he calls Colin Waverly and Peter McArthur. The roommates are two of Father Philips' most reliable parishioners. They are both big men and discreet. They can help move the man without offering asking a lot of distracting questions. Later, Father Philips will feel guilty for asking them to come out in this vile storm, but as he kneels in the empty foyer of his church and brushes the damp dark bangs off the forehead of a strange lost man, he feels only relief when they promise to be there within minutes.

Half an hour later, Peter and Colin manage to move the man onto the brown leather couch Father Philips keeps in his office for those times when one of his parishioners needs counseling. Water turns the leather a darker brown, but Father Philips ignores it. Colin holds the man upright as Father Philips strips off the trench coat and, feeling a little shifty, searches the pockets.

There is nothing, no ID. They lay the man down and continue the search through his pants pockets, but find nothing.

"Was he out cold the whole time?" Colin asks, his unusually elegant voice at odds with his substantial build.

"No. He was raving actually," Father Philips answers. Now that he isn't alone, some of his anxiety escapes his firm control, skittering across his expression and causing him to wring his hands. "Seemed to be scared of something. Kept asking for my help."

Colin doesn't have time to answer before the man lets out a breathy moan. They exchange a glance, and then Father Philips wheels his computer chair over to the side of the couch and sits. As he sits, the man's eyes open. They remain glued to the ceiling for a long moment, then he turns a calm gaze onto Father Philips.

"Who are you?" he asks. Like Colin, the man's voice doesn't match his appearance. In fact, the deep growl might sound better coming out of Colin's mouth, while Colin's light pleasing tenor wouldn't be out of place flowing from this man's mouth. Father Philips smiles to himself. God certainly likes dashing expectations.

"My name is Father Dean Philips," he answers. Some emotion flickers across the man's face, gone too quickly to identify. "You're in my office," he continues, gesturing to the others. "And these are my friends, Colin and Peter. Can you tell me your name?"

"I…" The man's forehead creases, his eyebrows meeting and he shakes his head. "No, I don't think I can."

"You can trust us," Peter assures him and gives the man his warmest smile, the one that Father Philips notices making many of the young ladies in the church blush when it's directed at them. "We want to help."

"I mean, I can't recall my name," the man says tonelessly, as if the fact that he couldn't remember his own name wasn't particularly interesting.

"Oh." It's all much more serious now. "I see. Can you…when you came in, you seemed frightened," Father Philips says. "Can you remember anything about that?"

The man takes a long moment to think. So long that Father Philips considers asking if he feels well, then the man shakes his head. His continued lack of emotion unnerves Father Philips. "I'm sorry. I felt as if I almost remembered something, but it's gone."

"Alright. Ok." Gathering his thoughts, Father Philips runs a finger through his unruly blond hair and says a quick prayer for guidance. He's a young priest. Only a year at this church and he's never had anything close to figuring out what to do when an amnesiac turns up on his doorstep. He stands, grateful for Colin's solid presence at his back and glances at the storm still raging outside his window.

"We'll make some phone calls after the storm passes," he decides. "Someone will notice when you're gone. We can put out the word and see if anyone comes to claim you."

He winces. He didn't mean to make the man sound like an abandoned puppy, but the man only nods and lets his eyes trail back to the ceiling. Father Philips can tell he is still thinking hard. "Do you need anything? Something to drink?" he asks. A shot of whiskey might not be out of order, he thinks to himself.

"Lawrence," the man says. "I'm sorry?" "I don't know. It's a word in my mind." The man sighs, frustration creeping over his features as the first emotion Father Philips' seen there since the man lost it in the foyer. "One of the only words."

"Maybe it's your name," Peter pipes up, leaning back against Father Philips' desk on his slender hands. "It seems like your name would be the first thing to remember, right?"

"I don't know," the man says again, but Father Philips has already decided to call him 'Lawrence', at least in his mind. It's better than 'the man'. Everyone deserves a name, even if it's the wrong one. He peers more closely at Lawrence, but he sees nothing; he's not even sure what he seeks.

"We'll figure this out," Father Philips suddenly promises him. It's important for reasons the priest doesn't know. Only this man, this 'Lawrence', is blank, but also sad. Helpless and lost, but strangely compelling. More than just a wandering vagrant. Something is telling him to help Lawrence. Father Philips has learned over the years not to dismiss it when God whispers in his ear. "We'll find out where you belong, ok?"

"What if I belong nowhere?" Lawrence asks. He is not anxious, only curious. Father Philips smiles.

"Then we will create a place for you."

**Four Years Later**

"Hey, it's about time you got your ass out of bed. I think I got us a hunt."

Dean resolutely ignores Sam's chipper morning voice and trudges to the coffee pot. He pours himself a cup and without bothering to doctor it with sugar or cream, downs half of it in three slurping gulps. He hears Sam snort behind him. Ignoring that too, Dean flops into the chair beside Sam's and nods at him.

"You can talk now," he allows.

"Wow, thanks." Sam rolls his eyes, but apparently isn't in the mood to bitch because he turns the laptop to face Dean and points at the screen. "Norfolk, Nebraska. Three deaths in the last week. All unsolved, all pretty freaking gruesome. I don't know what it is, but the bodies were almost completely drained of blood. Sounds a little too ritualistic for my tastes."

"Yeah," Dean agrees.

"You game then?" Sam asks. Dean doesn't know why because he must know the answer.

"When have I ever turned down a hunt?"

He doesn't like the way Sam's gaze turns gentle. Perhaps it was something of a pipe dream, but Dean really had hoped to make it through the day without sharing a weepy moment of reminiscing with Sam. Judging by the soft glint in those big hazel eyes, he's not going to survive even another minute without one.

"It's just hard sometimes, this time of year," Sam says.

Dean isn't sure if Sam means it's hard for himself or Dean or both. Either way, he's not in the mood to talk about it. He's not the kind of person that enjoys dwelling on the past and never has been. Unlike Sam, who loved every second of every history class he ever attended. Dean understands it's important for Sam to remember, to never let himself forget what he nearly became, but Dean just can't stomach it.

"The world didn't end three years ago, big deal," Dean says flippantly. "It also didn't end yesterday or last Tuesday or fifty years ago and we don't celebrate those days either."

"Dean," Sam grouses, arms crossing over his chest.

"No," Dean snaps, his voice brittle and full of warning. "I'm not in the mood, ok? Can't we just let it go by for once without the soul deep talk about everything we gave up to stop the damned apocalypse? It's not like I don't have a fucking reminder every time I look in the mirror," he says, one finger drawing an invisible line over the livid red scar that cuts a jagged line from under his right eye down across to his chin. Both he and Sam bear similar scars on their bodies, some from that final battle and others as a result of hunting, but Dean's is the only one so obviously visible.

"Yeah, ok," Sam says. Dean sees his Adam's apple bob up once hard and he looks away. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"I know," Dean says quickly. He hates the way his throat closes just a bit. "I know, man," he says again, then forces himself to look back at Sam. "But hey, we did it your way last year," he says, trying for and almost achieving a teasing tone. "It's my turn to decide how we celebrate the end of the end."

Sam snorts lightly.

"Right. And your way is to ignore it."

"Sounds about right," Dean says and when he smiles, it feels easier. "Besides you can bore Sarah with your emo boy angst later."

With a scowl, Sam grabs his empty coffee mug and walks to the counter.

"I don't want to upset her," he says. Dean knows Sarah is stronger than that, but he also understands the desire to protect loved ones as much as possible, even from yourself, so he says nothing. He figures that if Sam needs to talk that badly, Sarah'll drag it out of him sooner or later. Then again, if they leave for the hunt that day, Sam's mind might be whisked off topic anyway. Dean certainly hopes so.

"Have you told Sarah we're leaving yet?"

Sam shakes his head. "She's still asleep."

" _Alright_ , Sammy," Dean says and he knows he successful at sounding as lewd as possible when Sam rolls his eyes.

"Dude, are you ever going to grow up?"

"Well, it hasn't happened yet," Dean says reasonably and smirks at Sam.

It occurs to him, against his will since he hadn't wanted to think about Lucifer or the apocalypse ever again really, that this is the type of moment that Dean and Sam had fought to save. The small moments as well as the big. Dean's right to indulge his innate immaturity. Sam's chance to reconnect with an old flame. The ability to sit together in their shared kitchen and drink a damn good cup of coffee.

"So…Nebraska?" Sam asks as he leans back against the counter.

Dean grins. "Nebraska it is."

 

*************

"Oh, Lawrence. I didn't expect to see you into work today."

Betsy's large brown eyes soften into a gentleness that brings a slight smile to Lawrence's face. Always a beauty, Betsy's sweet expression makes her even more pleasing to look upon and Lawrence once again wonders at his lack of reaction to her. So many of the men and a few of the women who frequent their diner can't help, but be charmed by Betsy's artless grin and kind eyes. Not to mention her shapely figure. Lawrence loves Betsy, of course. But in a distant way, as he loves Father Dean and Colin. The way he loved Peter.

"I don't like sitting at home," he explains.

The color drains out of Betsy's face. "Oh, oh. Of course, I didn't think," she splutters, her hands suddenly busy cleaning an already spotless counter. "I'm…I'm so sorry, Lawrence."

It's not the first time she's given her condolences to Lawrence. The morning after, she'd shown up at their apartment with a large amount of food and an even larger amount of tears streaming down her face. In the end, Lawrence had ended up giving her more comfort than she intended to give him and Colin. It felt more natural that way, so Lawrence didn't mind one bit.

"I know, Betsy. I am too," he says.

The simple truth. He misses Peter fiercely and feels angry at his helplessness. No matter how many times Father Dean tells Lawrence that he couldn't have done anything, Lawrence can't believe it. There must have been something, anything, some clue about the murderer’s intentions leading to Peter. Some hint that Peter was next on the killer's list, the next person to be ruthlessly slaughtered.

But if there were hints, it's too late and Peter is gone. Boisterous and joyful Peter with his quick smile and always helping hands. Thinking of him laying on the ground, the light gone out of his sparkling blue eyes and his grin frozen blankly into place, makes Lawrence feel empty and lonely, even when he's surrounded by friends.

"Are you…are you sure you should be here?" Betsy asks. Unshed tears thicken her voice.

It's already been a very difficult week. Peter is not the only victim Betsy and Lawrence knew. They also knew the others victims, Robert and Brad and young Taylor. They all came into the restaurant. Not friends, but friendly acquaintances, all gone in a horrific tragedy.

"Maybe you should go over to the parsonage if you can't, I mean, if it's hard to be at home."

Lawrence shakes his head. Father Dean has enough worry without adding the stress of another grieving roommate. He knows that Colin has been with Father Dean most of the day. Lawrence doesn't want to interfere.

"It would be better to put myself to work," he disagrees and ties an apron around his waist.

There aren't any customers in the diner, but it's nearly time for the lunch rush to start. He realizes that he knows most of the patrons by name and Betsy's sympathy won't be the only he'll experience today. But he doesn't mind. He enjoys seeing the power of human compassion at work.

"Ok, well, just don't overdo it," Betsy implores, watching as Lawrence takes his box of extra condiments to the nearest table and exchanges a nearly empty ketchup bottle for a full one.

"I promise," he says, then gives her a real smile to reassure her. He's been told his smile is so rare that when someone sees it, they can't help, but feel comforted. Judging by the way Betsy's shoulders relax, the smile does the trick this time as well.

"I would really rather be here at work. I don't think anything too stressful will happen at work."

And in fact, he's right about that. The stress doesn't happen until much later.

*************

 

It's been a few months since Sam had the chance to don his ultra refined black FBI suit.

But this is the kind of case that requires access to police reports and crime scenes. When they arrive in Norfolk, a few questions answered reveal that another murder, yet to be reported by the media, occurred the previous night. Sam is disappointed, but not surprised. The murderer is consistent. So the problem is not only finding out who is murdering innocents, but how many he must commit to accomplish whatever crazy-ass supernatural spell he's planning.

The police aren't happy to see them, but they never are. Sam is used to the suspicious looks and the sotto voce grumbling. It doesn't matter as long as they get the job done.

He lets Dean take the lead on the questions; partly because the cops are the types that need a slick smooth talker rather than Sam's earnest charm to convince them to give up the answers, but also because Dean cuts an intimidating figure nowadays. If the ugly scar doesn't scare people into talking, the heavy weight of Dean's gaze certainly would. Most people couldn't figure out what they saw in Dean's eyes, what gave him that dark glint of unidentifiable emotion, but it made them feel awkward enough to spill way more than they did before Dean spent forty years in hell.

"Here's the official reports," says a young cop with a little too much acne to be taken seriously.

Before Sam can reach out, Dean snaps up the papers and begins to read.

"This everything?" he asks a minute later and the young cop nods, swallowing hard as Dean searches his face, then gives him an easy grin.

"Thanks." He looks at Sam. "We should head over to the last victim's house."

"Oh, they won't be there," the cop says.

Sam and Dean exchange a glance. "Did you know his family?" Sam asks gently.

The cop shakes his head. "No, but I know his roommates. Lotta people 'round here do. Peter McArthur was a pediatrician here in the town, so a lot of people with kids knew him," he explains and Sam raises an eyebrow because the cop looks like a kid still himself. "His roommates are probably down at the Episcopal church. St. Paul's," he clarifies. "Colin Waverly and Lawrence Hart."

"Right, ok," Dean says and claps the kid on the shoulder. "Thanks."

As they leave the police station, Dean finally hands over the report to Sam, who quickly reads it.

"This is sick," Sam says, feeling his stomach clench and roll. Considering some of the things Sam has seen, his disgust is almost reassuring. That he can still look at something this brutal and feel repulsed comforts him. "Almost all the blood drained…" Trailing off, he looks up and catches the flash of anger in Dean's eyes that's soon replaced by determination.

"Yeah, well, it ain't happening again," Dean growls, snatching the reports from Sam's hands and thrusting them into his pocket. "Let's get our rooms and then find out where this church is."

Sam agrees silently, just nodding, but is somewhat surprised by the pluralization of the word 'rooms' in Dean's plans. This case doesn't seem like the type where Dean would make time for that.

But then, they haven't been on a case in nearly a month. It's been quite some time since Dean went that long without one of his replacement fucks.

Sam sighs to himself. He wishes Dean would just allow himself to have them at home, but it crosses some kind of line in Dean's mind that only Dean can understand.

They find a nice looking hotel not far from the police station and Dean avoids Sam's eyes while he requests their separate rooms. Maybe next time, Sam thinks to himself as Dean hands him his key, he'll bring Sarah along. She's good in a fight, but they can’t bring her along very often because her job at the local art museum is their only really steady income.

Plus, though Sam will never admit this to her, he is more comfortable knowing she is safe at home, even if she's bored out of her skull by the time they get back.

His hotel room is small, but still larger than he really needs. Setting his bag aside and opening his laptop, Sam fervently hopes they won't be here very long. The pressure to solve the case suddenly becomes like a physical thing, weighing down on his shoulders, his head and his heart. He takes a deep breath and searches the yellow pages for St. Paul's.

Awhile later, long enough for Sam to begin wondering about him, Dean barges in his room and drops into the second chair at the tiny table.

"Thank God for hard earned cash," Dean says in apparent approval of their digs.

Sam has to admit, they are a hell of a lot better than the old dumps they used before the apocalypse. He knows Dean has used the money he earns from his part time mechanic's work to pay for their rooms. Dean's not real comfortable using Sarah's money on more than the rent of their house and even then only allows it because Sarah lives there too and refuses to let the boys go homeless just because Dean's stubborn.

 _You saved the world, Dean. Paying the rent is the least I could do_ is what she says and crosses her arms over her chest, her own brand of stubborn firming her stance. Sam smiles at the memory.

"Yep," he says to Dean, whose answering smile makes it apparent Dean thought Sam was grinning at him and not at the memory of his fiery eyed girlfriend yelling at his brother.

"Anyway," he continues, swallowing his brief flush of guilt. "Found the church." He points to the screen. "About five blocks from here. Shouldn't be too hard to get there."

"Ok," Dean says and pulls a Snickers bar out of his pocket. "So, I'm thinking we should look real close at these roommates of the last victim," he says before taking an obscenely large bite out of his candy bar.

"Why's that?" Sam asks.

"Well, while you were in here looking up one thing online," Dean says, earning himself a scowl from Sam, "I was busy getting this from the lobby."

He drags a messily folded map from his pocket.

"And this," he adds, indicating the half-eaten candy bar with a grin.

Sam rolls his eyes, but says nothing as he takes the map. Dean's marked on it in red pen, three big scarlet dots in a very small and nearly perfect triangle. Sam glances up at him, surprised.

"The other victims?"

Dean nods. "The police report only says that they all lived near other, not that near each other. Now, if we add the latest," he says and the pen appears from another pocket.

Dean bites down on the lid, releasing the pen and carefully draws another red dot on the map. It's not quite in the middle of the triangle, but near enough to see that the murderer is closing in to a particular point. Maybe this house or perhaps the next one over.

"I don't know that it's random killings just for the blood. It could be the killer's looking for someone in particular."

Sam studies the map, thinking hard. His eyebrows crinkle and he bites his lip. "Maybe, yeah. And the roommates might know something. Or may even be involved.”

"Yeah. None of the other victims lived with anyone," Dean says. "I don't know about the roommates committing the crime because let's be serious, if it's a demon, there's no telling who it's possessing, but they might know something."

Frustration curls in Sam's gut. They rarely get demons anymore, not since slamming the gates of hell shut three years ago, but he still hates dealing with them. Hates how they lie, how it's impossible to tell who they are, how they look at Sam like he belongs with them, even though the demon blood burned out of his system ages ago.

"The others sound like kind of lonely guys," Dean continues, stuffing the rest of the bar into his mouth and talking through it. "This was the first guy who actually had a full life."

Sam hates the way that comes across, but it's true. A snap of his fingers and Sam has the reports back in his hands, glancing over it. All the victims are male, but in different age ranges. A 19 year old waiter, a 47 year old accountant and a 32 year old computer tech. All unmarried, all living alone. The only connection was between the waiter and the accountant, who attended the same church.

But it wasn't the same church as Peter McArthur or the computer tech and they didn't seem to know each other very well.

"I agree," Sam finally says. "The cops seem to have dismissed the roommates, but if either are possessed…"

"Yeah," Dean says and stands. "So let's get going."

 

*********

Dean already hates this case. It stinks of demons or witches or both and Dean hates them all more than he can ever say.

Almost as much as he hates angels.

Their last demonic case was over five months ago, some low level demon that got loose and decided to wreak havoc by causing a series of ghastly car accidents.

Since then it's been mostly run-of-the-mill salt and burns, couple of cursed objects, one annoying poltergeist. Hunting's not really been the same since Dean stopped the apocalypse.

Evil's gone into hiding and while Dean's happy that innocent people aren't suffering as much, he's also not quite sure what to do with himself. He's a hunter and always has been. He can't remember not having a dark shadow hanging over his life, an evil threat looming in his future. Dean likes working with cars, but it's not enough. Something's missing from his life.

He can't decide if it's something good or something bad.

He knows what Sam would say, what he never says when Dean asks for separate rooms during their hunts. Dean hates talking about it, hates even being made to think about it.

It's been four years.

He's been gone for four years. Dean should be over this by now. Should have let go of the blinding anger and the crushing guilt by now.

He shouldn't keep looking over his shoulder or letting his eyes get caught by every glimpse of tan, every head of dark hair, every flash of piercing blue eyes.

He certainly shouldn't bring them back to his hotel room.

But the truth is, Dean can't stop. He can't stop wondering about Castiel, can't stop obsessing about what exactly happened to him.

None of the angels will tell him. No matter how many times Dean asks, no matter how many times he refused to help them if they didn't tell him.

Anna searches as much as she can, questions and spies and even she can't find any information. Dean can still remember the way he felt when Anna gently told him that the lack of information probably means that Castiel is dead.

With perfect clarity, Dean can remember the way his chest compressed, the way his breaths stopped in his lungs and the way his vision blurred to swaths of moving color. He can remember it because it's how he still feels each time the knowledge springs to the front of his mind, like a cruel jack-in-the-box.

 _Cas is dead! He died for you! You sent him to his death_!

The thing is, it's not the first time Dean's been responsible for the death of someone close to him. It's just the first time he's ever talked that someone into dying for him.

And it's the first time he was in love with that someone.

Dean shakes his head. This isn't time to think about Cas and Dean's Winchester-typical realization of his feelings for the angel only after his death.

"You ok?" Sam asks and that's when Dean realizes he's been staring sightlessly at the steering wheel.

"Yeah," Dean grunts and throws the car into reverse, giving Sam a nod.

He can see it doesn't convince Sam. A few weeks after Castiel's demise, Sam confesses that he always knows when Dean is thinking about the angel. The troubled expression on Sam's face tells Dean that he is wearing that special expression right now and Dean sighs.

He doesn't know why this case has him maudlin about ancient history. It's probably the fucking demons, Dean thinks with heartfelt loathing. Those stupid bastards always make Dean think about events best left buried in the past.

It takes no time to reach the church. The building is old, probably one of the oldest in Norfolk and Dean would have mistaken it for a Catholic church if he didn't already know better. The stone walls of the building shoot skyward, seem to go on forever and there's a single central tower dominating the roof, complete with a wrought-iron spire.

The only thing missing are the gargoyles, but Dean's not upset about the absence. The little fucks remind him too much of hell hounds.

"Wow," Sam says, staring up in appreciation. He's probably dredging up a mental list of useless architectural information. Dean heads him off at the pass before Sam can give him the lecture.

"Come on. Try not to drool on yourself."

Sam's mouth snaps shut with an audible click and Dean laughs. Let no man say he doesn't know his baby brother.

The two front doors are large and pretty heavy for the only visible means of entering the church. Dean experiences an odd touch of sympathy for all the little old church ladies that must have a hell of a time dragging these puppies open on Sunday morning.

Inside the doors is an empty foyer and beyond it, the doors to the sanctuary are open. It feels welcoming even though Dean doesn't see anyone around. The lack of an office nearby draws Dean and Sam through the sanctuary, the afternoon light splattering their faces in color as it filters through tall skinny stain glass windows. The velvety carpet complains softly under their feet and the stillness slows Dean's breath. He doesn't go to church very often, but he's seen enough to feel respect in this place.

Although it doesn't stop him from shooting a vague glare towards the painting of an angel hanging near the exit door. As soon as they leave the sanctuary, Dean hears and follows a gentle babble of murmuring voices to a small office.

"Hello?"

There are two men in the office. One is lean and short with a mass of curly blond hair above a thin, but handsome face. The other is sitting on a dark brown leather couch and while Dean can't tell his exact height, it's clear that the second man is enormous. Like Sammy-type tall and even thicker across the shoulders. His black-brown eyes are red from crying and there is a wad of crumpled tissues clutched in his thick hands.

"Can I help you?"

The blond guy's voice is polite, but distant and Dean understands this isn't the best time to be bothering grieving people, but he's got a job and it can't be helped.

"Yes, I'm Agent John Fields," Dean says, holding up his latest faked badge. "And this is my partner, Agent George Eddings," he adds, nodding back at Sam. "We were told at the police station that we could find a Colin Waverly or Lawrence Hart here."

The man's face changes in the middle of Dean's speech, from aloof to alert. He nods and offers Dean his hand.

"Of course. I'm Father Dean Philips," he says and Dean manages not to snort. Sam, on the other hand, makes a small noise in the back of his throat and Dean knows he's in for some teasing about the idea of himself as a clergyman. At least it's an Episcopal church. Dean's pretty sure those guys can still fuck.

"This is Colin," he says, turning soft eyes to the man on the sofa. "You'll be here about…about Peter, of course," the Father stutters, his voice hitching. "He's…was, he was one of my, of mine."

"We're so sorry for your loss," Sam says. This is his job, offering condolences and speaking gentle words that sound like jagged rocks coming from Dean's mouth. "I understand this is a difficult time, but we need to ask you some questions."

Father Philips nods, shaky, but on task. "Of course, we understand," he says and Dean wonders if the big guy's mute or just used to letting his preacher talk for him. He's not really looking at either at them, but rather at his hands twisting the old tissues over and over.

Another pang of sympathy, this time more serious and Dean wonders what it was about killing evil that's made him softer rather than harder.

The Father walks to his desk, brushing a supportive hand over Colin's shoulder before sitting at his desk. "What do you need to know?"

There's something different about the way the guy looks at Dean that throws him off so much that he doesn't say anything at first. The pause lasts long enough that Sam picks up the thread of the conversation and begins asking Father Philips about Peter's life. Dean listens to the Father describe an affectionate and out-going man of faith, the very best kind of person he says, until it hits him that Father Philips hasn't given Dean's scar a second glance. Dean knows everyone notices the outside package, but still, he gets tired of the pity, the disgust, even the fascination. It's refreshing to produce no notable reaction.

It isn't going to make Dean any nicer in his approach to this case, though.

"I'm sorry, but we have to ask," Dean says a bit later when Sam's done wringing information out of the Father about the victim. "Where were you last night?"

The question is undoubtedly directed to Colin, who looks up for the first time. Dean catches a brief flicker of surprise in dark eyes that trail down his face, but it's gone quickly.

"I was asleep when it happened," he says, his voice soft rain in Dean's ears. "I'd worked a double shift, so I went to bed early. 'Round nine o'clock."

"The police already asked this," Father Philips breaks in, sounding a bit distressed. "I can't exactly confirm, but Colin called me around 8:30 to ask if I'd seen Lawrence, then he said he was going to bed. I know, it's not evidence, but I can assure you Colin would never-"

Sam lifts a hand to staunch the flow.

"We're not making accusations. We just need the information. I believe you," he adds to Colin and while Dean does as well, he doesn't want these two to believe them too easy, so he fixes a hard gaze on the Father.

"And what about Lawrence? Do you know where he was?"

"He was here in the church until about ten o'clock," Father Philips says. "He likes to sit in the sanctuary sometimes and pray. He told the police he went for a short walk, then went home afterwards."

Dean changes his gaze to Colin, the question in his eyes.

"I didn't hear him come in," Colin admits, looking troubled. "He moves around pretty quietly and he's always had trouble sleeping ever since we moved in together. But he was at home when I got up at about five the next morning."

Sam and Dean exchange a glance and Dean leaves it to Sam to ask the question.

"Does Lawrence have an alibi for the other murders?"

There's a split second of silence, then Father Philips and Colin both begin speaking.

"Not technically, but Lawrence wouldn't-"

"No, but you gotta understand about Lawrence-"

"Hold it," Dean bellows, holding up both hands.

Something pricks his spidey sense, as it were. He may not be a real FBI agent, but he's pretended to be one long enough to know that you ask questions about the things that bug you the most. And the looks on these two guys' faces when they talk about Lawrence seriously bugs Dean. There's a knowing and fierce protectiveness etched in their features, as if they know that Dean and Sam would be all too interested in Lawrence if only they knew.

If only they knew _what_ is Dean's chief concern.

"No one knows where Lawrence was for any of the four murders?"

More glancing, then Father Philips swallows and shakes his head.

"No. Other than where he says he was, which I believe. Lawrence doesn't lie."

"Ever?" Sam asks, incredulous.

"I've never heard him do so," Father Philips says. He looks at his hands for a long moment before sighing. "You have to understand about Lawrence. He's not like most people."

 _Yeah, I've heard that before_ , Dean thinks and being 'special' isn't always a good thing.

"How's that?"

"He just sees the world in a different way," Father Philips explains, though Dean can tell by the frustration on his face that he's having trouble forming the words to properly explain himself. "It's like he's above this, all this," he says, gesturing around with aimless hands.

"Peter's…murder," he chokes on the word, "devastated him, but he has trouble showing it. The police here, they know Lawrence pretty well. Most of the people around here understand what he's about, but I want you to understand if you meet with him. He doesn't show off what he's feeling, so it can be disconcerting talking with him, but I assure you, he feels things deeply."

Dean meets Sam's eyes again and he can see that Sam isn't comforted by their words either. A man disconnected from the rest of humanity with trouble showing emotions sounds less like a good thing and more like a sociopath.

"How long have you known him?"

"Four years," Colin jumps in and now his eyes carry their own brand of hardness. The Father may have missed Dean and Sam's silent exchange, but Colin hasn't and Dean almost smiles. "He moved in with me pretty soon after we found him."

"Found him?" Father Philips fidgets in his seat. Clearly something else that he doesn't really want to tell them, but Dean just stares and uses his ' _Don't mess with me, I survived hell_ ' mask. It works pretty quickly.

"Lawrence showed up at my doorstep several years ago without his memory," Father Philips explains. "We've never been able to find anything about his real past." A pause, then he looks at his hands again. "We're not even sure that Lawrence is his real name and we know that 'Hart' isn't. I gave him that name because he looks like a deer in the headlights sometimes."

A fond smile touches his lips at the memory and he looks up.

"I know how this sounds, but you have to believe me when I say that Lawrence is the most devout man I've ever known. He loves the Lord more than anyone I've ever met. He's not capable of this act."

His impassioned words aren't exactly ineffective, but add amnesia on top of the possible sociopathic tendencies and Dean's really worried. Beyond the possibility of a sick human, Dean knows there's every chance that Lawrence's head's been messed with by a demon or witch. Some kind of spell or booby trap laid in him years ago that's just gone off. He may not know he's killing.

The memory of Madison flickers in Dean's mind and he shakes himself.

"Where can we find him?"

"I'll call his cell," Colin offers. "I'm not sure if he stayed at home or not."

Sam nods and they listen as Colin speaks to Lawrence, who promises to leave wherever he is and come right over to the church. His quick agreement eases Dean a touch, but mostly because he isn't in the mood to go chasing this guy across the town.

While they wait for him to show up, Dean asks Father Philips and Colin if they've seen anything strange, the whole flickering light and sulfur question, but both answer in the negative. Soon enough, they hear footsteps echoing down the hallway.

"Here he comes," Father Philips says unnecessarily and stands.

Dean turns and everything stops.

His breath, his heart, even time halts and his center of gravity tilts, sending blood roaring through his ears, down into his gut and it's almost like fainting except he's still standing and his eyes are still seeing, seeing but not believing.

Beside him, he vaguely hears Sam saying, "Oh my god," and Dean grabs the closest solid shape, a bookshelf filled with religious volumes. The word, when it finally comes, is ripped from his throat as a rough dark whisper.

" _Cas_?”

 

************

When Colin calls Lawrence's cell, he is relieved. Work is good, the condolences are comforting, but Lawrence wants to do something to help. Anything to stop this evil from happening again to someone else, to stop another collection of loved ones from being left behind and at a loss.

He agrees to come to the church immediately and after a quick explanation to Betsy, sets off. He's glad the FBI has become involved with the case. Lawrence doesn't know much about federal procedure, but he assumes the FBI has better technology and more highly trained personnel. It's no slight to Norfolk's homicide investigation, but it's not exactly a common crime around these parts, thank God.

Surely, the FBI can ferret out more details than the local police. The thought quickens Lawrence's steps and within moments, he's striding between rows of pews towards Father Dean's office.

He hears Father Dean's voice. "Here he comes."

Nothing that happens after Lawrence steps through the door is what he ever expected.

There are two FBI agents waiting with Father Dean and Colin. One is quite tall with wavy brown hair and a wide pointed nose. He is the one that Lawrence sees first, but his attention is snatched away almost immediately by the other. A wave of strange strong emotion ripples through both men, causing the shorter man to physically support himself against Father Dean's bookshelf.

The tall man says something that Lawrence only distantly hears through a buzz in his ears. His eyes lock onto the other man. There is a long uneven scar cut into the man's face. Lawrence feels inexplicable grief for it, for the pain it must have caused him, but the emotion is overwhelmed almost immediately by the shocking and painful longing burning in the other man's bright green eyes.

No one's ever looked at Lawrence that way.

In fact, Lawrence has never seen that look on anyone's face before, even when he sometimes accidentally steals a peek at the tender glances exchanged between lovers.

He wonders if this is how people look at each other in total privacy, in their bedrooms as they run their hands over each other and talk to each other of love and desire.

The man's mouth, his full lips that remind Lawrence of Betsy, move once soundlessly.

Then Lawrence hears the man's voice and it breaks his heart.

"Cas?"

The word is nonsense, means nothing, but the wrecked whisper draws pinpricks of heat from Lawrence's skin. This is what Lawrence has been looking for ever since he stumbled into St. Paul's four years ago, confused and lost. This recognition, this promise of a shared history glowing in the man's now shining eyes.

"Do you know me?" he asks eagerly. He is surprised by the torrent of hurt that cascades across the man's expression.

"It's me, Cas," he says desperately. "Don't you…don't you remember me? Remember us?" he asks, patting his own chest once, then gestures to the other man. "Please, Cas, you gotta remember."

If Lawrence thought the man sounded wrecked before, it's nothing compared to the anguish he hears now.

Time stretches thin for a moment, allowing Lawrence to realize how it must have been for this man and his friend if Lawrence is important to them. Years of separation and not knowing. The torment of suspended grief, unable to find closure one way or another.

Lawrence feels a strong jolt of guilt and blanches. Somehow, this man makes everything inside Lawrence seem like so much more.

"I'm sorry," he says, words strangled. "I don't…I never could," he swallows. "I could only remember Lawrence."

"Yes, Lawrence," the man says and he takes a step closer, a fire building in his eyes. "It's where we're from, Cas. Me and Sam. We're from Lawrence, Kansas and you remember it because you know everything about me. Everything," he stresses and his presence is commanding, so intense that Lawrence feels his knees grow weak, feels himself leaning towards the man without conscious thought.

"Sam?" Father Dean interrupts. Lawrence can hear the frown in it. "I thought his name was George?"

The green eyed man ignores him and so does Lawrence. There is little he can focus on besides the man's powerful gaze. The longing Lawrence sees deepens, firms into determination. There are other things in those eyes, things that scare and attract Lawrence and he feels something slide under his skin, a flash of energy that he doesn't understand.

"No, this is bullshit," the man spits and to Lawrence's great surprise, he tears off his jacket. Colin stands, alarmed, but the other agent, Sam, holds out an arm.

"Please, just let him," he says. Lawrence watches in amazement as the man rips off his white button down shirt, almost popping the buttons off in his haste and drags his tie off over his head. Underneath the button-down is a white t-shirt. The man peels up one sleeve and Lawrence is shocked to see thick red scars in the shape of a hand burned into the man's pale freckled skin. He grabs Lawrence's hand and presses it over the scars. It's a perfect fit.

"Your name is Castiel," he says, low and intimate. "You gripped me tight, remember? You saved me. You put me back together."

Castiel. 

Lawrence rolls the name around in his mind, stroking and prodding it, trying to spark recognition, but there is none.

He stares at the man's shoulder, at his fingers pale white against pink. It's not possible. There are no complimentary scars on Lawrence's palm, no way his delicate human flesh could survive the kind of heat that had seared these scars into the agent's shoulder without evidence. It doesn't make sense.

"I don't understand," he confesses weakly. He hates saying it. The last thing he wants is to disappoint this man and he doesn't even know why. Just that somehow, in his past, Lawrence has earned the emotions gleaming in the agent's eyes and he doesn't want to lose them before he knows exactly what they are. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"No," the man says and he covers Lawrence's hand with his own. "This isn't your fault, Cas, ok? This is on them. Those dicks did this to you."

From anyone else, it would have been gibberish, but Lawrence only nods and feels the knot he's been carrying for years loosen in his chest. It's ok. They've finally come for him and he can relax.

"Ok," he says. "Please, what's your name?"

Pain flashes in the man's eyes and Lawrence thinks he's beginning to understand that he is hurting for Lawrence more than because of him. Maybe he doesn't blame Lawrence for not trying harder to find him.

"It's Dean."

Despite himself, Lawrence laughs, a puff of surprised amusement that brings a strange amazed light into Dean's eyes. It's just the irony in the midst of this tangle of bizarre events that Lawrence should be again saved by a man called Dean.

"Now, this is too much."

Father Dean refuses to be held back by Sam's long arms and shoves around Colin, pushing into Dean's personal space.

"If you're not who you said you were, then just who are you? And please, give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the police on you right now. Impersonating an FBI agent must break dozens of laws."

His words are unquestionably angry, but like always, he sounds calm and in control. He sounds like the sure and confident man that Lawrence trusted with his life and well-being.

"I have a great reason, but I'm not sure you'd believe me," Dean says. His fingers release Lawrence's, leaving him feeling bereft as his own hand slips down Dean's arm. The warm skin makes Lawrence think of summer and sitting under the great oak tree on the outskirts of town on lazy church picnics. Lawrence wants to get closer, to soak up the heat.

"I'm afraid that's not good enough," Father Dean says and Lawrence hears him pick up the phone. Panic pulses in his chest. The police will come and take Dean away. Lawrence will lose him.

Again.

He can't be alone again. Not after so long.

"No," Lawrence commands, startled by his own intensity. "Don't."

"Lawrence?" Colin's voice. Concerned and perhaps a little scared. He's not used to Lawrence causing a fuss or demanding something for himself. It's not his way, but in this Lawrence will not stand down.

"These men know me," Lawrence says. Hope flickers in Dean's eyes and Lawrence wishes he had more to offer him than this. "If you were desperate to find a loved one, would you not do anything to find them?"

With reluctance, Lawrence lets Dean's gaze go and turns to look at the Father. His deep brown eyes are pitying.

"Even if it means breaking laws?"

"Is that true?" Father Dean addresses both men. "Were you searching for Lawrence?"

"Yes," Dean says immediately, with deep and true conviction. "I can guarantee you that I've never stopped looking for Cas since the day he…the day I last saw him."

The other man, Sam, watches Dean with tremendous sadness and he nods.

"Not once," he murmurs, memories Lawrence can't imagine casting shadows in his eyes.

"It's why we were asking all those questions," Dean continues. A new side of him appears to Lawrence as a grin grows at the corner of his mouth and a smug sparkle lights in those green eyes. "You see, Cas here, he's a pretty big deal. If the wrong people knew he was here, there'd be trouble. We can't take any chances."

This is surprising news to Lawrence. "Am I really important?"

"More than you know, buddy," Dean says. And then he winks. A short flutter of Dean's eyelid that spills a torrent of hot shivers from Lawrence's head down to his belly and out through his limbs. This man does such strange things to Lawrence's body.

"That's kinda hard to believe," Colin says, troubled.

Dean shrugs. "Lot of things are hard to believe. Doesn't mean they aren't true."

"Yes, I agree," Lawrence says. He steps around Dean, in front of him to face his two friends. "Thank you for your concern. But if I'm ever to find out who I am, I need to speak with these gentlemen. Please trust me."

Perhaps it is low to use their friendship to draw promises from Colin and Father Dean, but Lawrence senses this is the most important decision of his life without memory.

He locks eyes with Father Dean, sees the short struggle, then the eventual acceptance.

"Be careful," Father Dean pleads. Then he shakes his cell phone at Lawrence. "Call me every few hours."

Lawrence digs out his own cell and holds it up. "I promise."

Behind him, Dean snorts with laughter. "You join the 21st century, Cas?"

More clues, stacking up. Lawrence turns a shy smile on Dean. He is more than ready to learn about himself. Dean's own smile fades slowly as his eyes catch on Lawrence's mouth and become dark with some emotion Lawrence simply can't identify.

"Dean?"

"I just…" His voice lowers into a ragged sigh. "I just missed you."

"I'm sorry."

 _I missed you too_.

Lawrence doesn't say it, but it's true because for the first time in four years, he feels, really feels and it's like waking up after a very long slumber.

"I'm glad you found me," he offers instead because he doesn't know how to explain the way he feels inside. Dean's hand curls around his wrist.

"Come on. Let's go and find your memory."

Somehow, Lawrence doesn't think it'll be that easy, but he could almost believe that this man will fix him through the strength of his will alone. So he lets himself be pulled and he lets himself hope.

 

***********

 

Dean didn't think it was possible to be this elated and this pissed at the same time.

Like beyond rapturous side by side with livid.

But all he has to do is look at Castiel again and he knows it's more than possible. It's exactly how he feels. The important part is that it's Castiel. His Cas. In the flesh and blessedly not dead. The same big blue eyes and messy bedroom hair. The same pointed nose and five o'clock shadow. He's even sort of wearing the same thing, though without the trench coat. A white button down shirt tucked into black pants. Probably a work uniform and that's part of where 'livid' starts.

How could Cas not know what he was? How could an angel forget? Dean begins to wonder if he's even still an angel. Surely, an angel wouldn't need to eat or sleep and Cas would have noticed if he didn't do those things for years. Those archangels did a number on Cas and then dropped him in the middle of nowhere, scared and alone and without Dean to take care of him.

Dean can hardly abide thinking about it because hot anger bursts in his chest every time and makes him feel sick with it. He always imagined if he ever found Castiel again that he wouldn’t let anything stop him from touching him.

Maybe he didn’t realize this at first, but as time went by and Dean really understood what he lost, he thought if he saw Castiel again, he'd want to pull the angel into his arms and hold him as long as Cas allowed it.

But this man, this _Lawrence_ , doesn't know Dean. Not really. Dean can see that Cas recognizes something in him, if not his identity, some long forgotten emotion.

But it's not the same as having Cas back. The old snarky demanding Cas that gave up everything for Dean and then disappeared without letting Dean do the same in return.

"Do I have a family?"

They make it outside the church in a silence filled with furtive glances before Cas finally speaks. Dean looks at Sam. Sam shrugs.

Neither are certain what they should tell Cas. Dean's worried that if he tells Cas the whole truth, it'll screw with his mind. Or make him run screaming in the other direction. So he settles for partial truth until they can get somewhere private and get hold of someone who knows what the hell is going on.

"You have a Father," Dean says. Cas gives him an odd look, like he knows what Dean means, but he doesn't press the issue.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to our hotel so we can talk more."

At that, Cas falls silent again. When they get to the Impala, he peers at it for a long moment, long enough that Dean feels hope of recognition glimmer. Though he'll be pretty annoyed if Cas remembers the car and not him, as much as he loves his baby.

But Cas eventually opens the back door without comment and slides into the seat. At the motel, Dean leads them without thought to his own room. Sam veers off with an excuse that he needs to grab something from his room, but Dean gets the impression he is trying to give him a moment alone with Castiel. The thought of which he appreciates, but which also freaks him the hell out.

Especially when he opens the door and gestures Cas inside. He remembers all those stupid Cas stand-ins he invited back to his room and fucked like some pathetic loser.

And now he has the real thing and Dean doesn't know what to do with him.

"Um, you thirsty?" He asks, more to have something to do than out of true concern. Cas shakes his head.

"No, thank you."

They stand in awkward silence, facing each other and the two feet between them feel like two hundred. Not that Dean doesn't enjoy watching Cas because honestly, he could look at the man for the rest of his life and never get tired of it, but he hates the unease between them.

So he is both relieved and surprised when Cas suddenly surges forward, closing the space between them down to less than six inches.

"What was the exact nature of our relationship?"

The last time Cas was this close to Dean, he slammed Dean against a wall. Dean's skin tingles in memory and a strange anticipation, as if he's somehow trained himself to watch for unexpected and delicious violence from Cas.

"We're friends," he croaks.

"But it's more than that," Castiel insists. He presses his hand against the mark on Dean's shoulder. "This forged a bond between us, didn't it? There's always a special bond when someone saves another. I feel the same way about Father Dean."

Dean frowns and tries not to let the extremely petty jealousy he feels over that statement say something rash. Something like, _Fuck that other Dean. You're my angel_.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and leans into Castiel's hand.

"Yeah, Cas. There's a bond. You saved my life more than once."

"Is your life so dangerous?" His eyes are on his hand, on Dean's shoulder and they are wide with fascinated wonder. "Am I that brave?"

"Yes," Dean answers with a tiny puff of laughter. "Yes to both. In fact, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to forget again once you remember."

"No." With a final squeeze, Cas lets go. Dean immediately misses him fiercely. "You don't know what it's like to forget like this. It's very lonely."

Dean's heart twists in his chest and against his better judgment, he tugs Cas forward, gentle enough that Cas could escape, but without leaving any doubt of his intention.

Cas allows himself to be tugged and their chests hit each other. Cas smells strongly of something sweet, some kind of pastry and Dean grins into his hair. He's got his angel back and he smells like pie.

Strong arms wrap around Dean's waist, pulling him flush against Cas' body. He buries his face into Dean's neck and it's so good. So very good that Dean could gladly die from it.

"You're not alone, ok?" Dean whispers into Cas' hair. "I've got you now."

He feels Cas draw a shuddered breath before he relaxes, tension leaching away in Dean's arms. They stay that way for a long time or what feels like a long time, but is in fact far too short when Sam opens the door and walks in.

"Oh," he says, surprised. "I'm sorry. I can just-" He gestures over his shoulder, but Dean shakes his head.

"No, get in here. We gotta find out what's going on."

The last thing he wants to do is let Castiel out of his grasp, but while it's extremely nice holding him, it's not helpful just now. Hopefully, there'll be plenty of time for that later.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Yes?"

His eyes are bright. Dean swallows back the sudden strong urge to kiss him.

"I need you to trust me, alright? 'Cause what I'm about to do is going to be pretty surprising." Cas nods without hesitation.

"I'll try not to become overwhelmed with shock and awe," he says and Dean blinks. Four years as a human and Cas has developed a sense of humor, albeit a pretty feeble one.

"Well, that encouraging," Dean says. He rolls his eyes at Sam, who grins in return. A familiar feeling returns to Dean's chest, a feeling he hasn't felt in years and he thinks it's interesting that the last time he felt normal is when the world was in danger of ending.

Dean steps away from Castiel into the center of the room and looks up. The looking up is not necessary, but Dean always does it anyway.

"Yo, Anna!"

Nothing happens. That's ok because sometimes it takes a few tries to get her attention when she's off doing whatever not-quite-angels do in their free time.

"Hey, Anna, need your help here, babe," Dean bellows. The look Cas is giving him is priceless. One eyebrow is raised slightly higher than the other and then, to Dean's utter delight, his head cocks to one side. It shouldn't be so…hot.

But it very much is. He doesn't have time to fully enjoy it though because the air trembles around them. There's a brief fluttering noise, then Anna materializes out of thin air before him.

"It's been a long time, Dean," she says with a grin and makes to bestow on him the usual hug when her face changes. The way she is standing, Castiel is behind her, but she freezes anyway, shock contorting her features as she apparently senses him. Whirling around, Anna's mouth falls open.

For his part, Cas looks equally surprised, though Dean is certain it's because a woman exploded into existence before his very eyes rather than because he recognizes her.

"Castiel," Anna breathes. She makes a motion with one hand as if to touch Cas, but stops when Cas backs away, his eyes filled with apprehension.

Dean winces slightly. If Cas remembers unconsciously the emotions attached to Dean, emotions that make him seek comfort in Dean's arms, then it matches his emotions connected to Anna would be less pleasant.

Dean doesn't know all the details, but he's had enough conversations with Anna about Cas to know that they fought before she tore out her grace, that Castiel had been appalled when his respected leader chose to disobey so egregiously.

"What are you?" His voice isn't quite cold, but it's definitely more aloof that he's been so far.

Dean doesn't realize how different he's sounded until Cas reverts back to his old distant tones, the kind he used when Dean first knew him.

"I don't understand," Anna murmurs, almost under her breath. Dipping her head, she examines Cas through lowered eyelashes and the way her eyes glaze a bit makes Dean think maybe she's looking on the inside rather than the outside. "Oh, Cas, what did they do to you?"

"Who are you?" Castiel demands. His eyes, now a frosty blue, snap to Dean's face. "Dean?"

Long past time to jump in, Dean leaps to Cas' side.

"Sorry about that, buddy. This is Anna. She's your…sister, I guess," he says as he cups Castiel's elbow and gives it a comforting squeeze. "Nothing to be scared of, I promise. She might be able to help you with your memory."

Dean ignores the tiny annoyed huff Anna lets out. He knows she wishes he wouldn't make promises like that, but he's only saying that Anna'll try to help and Dean also knows that's true. Besides Cas, Anna is pretty much the only angel Dean really trusts and that includes some pretty powerful archangels Dean met during the war that only ever offered assistance. He just can't be sure they weren't the same ones that stripped Castiel of his identity and tossed him out in the sticks.

"I can try," Anna clarifies. Another cautious step brings her within touching distance of Cas.  "I don't know what was done to you, Castiel, but I've known you for a very long time. We were as close as Dean is to Sam once." Castiel doesn't exactly relax, but his icy expression thaws somewhat. "If you'll let me," she says, raising a hand to indicate that she wants to touch his face. "I might be able to find out what's wrong with you."

It's Dean that Cas looks to rather than Anna. At Dean's encouraging nod and purposeful invasion of his personal space, Castiel takes a deep breath and nods at Anna. Dean doesn't exactly understand why Cas is ok with his touches now when they rarely touched before, but he's not about to complain.

Especially not when Cas pushes into the hand on his back and Dean feels warmth soak into his skin. Anna raises her slender hands to each side of Castiel's face and closes her eyes. Subtle energy cuts the air, raising the hair at the back of Dean's neck. Cas jerks in place and he grabs Dean's free hand, but doesn't move away from her.

Minutes pass, the three of them connected in a strange triangle of ancient power and if Dean concentrates, he can almost feel the probing tendrils Anna sends through Castiel's mind and soul, searching for answers. The energy builds as Anna dives deeper, coalescing to something nearly unbearable and just as Dean considers asking Sammy to cut in, the power dissipates.

"Wow, Cas," she gasps. "You really pissed off the upper management."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, alarmed.

"It's like a curse, I think," Anna explains, brushing away a lock of static-filled hair from her face. "I can see it, but I can't touch it. It's extremely powerful."

"A curse? What kind of curse?"

Beside him, Castiel sways, weak from the intrusive probe. Dean circles his waist with one arm and tries not to worry about how Cas isn't more curious about what would seem insane to any normal person, things like powerful curses and mind melds.

"I don't know," Anna admits. "But I think it's been personalized." At Dean's bewildered look, she continues with a grim smile. "I think it's possible to break it, but that only Castiel can do it."

"So, what? The archangels put him in a Disney movie?"

"Angels?" Castiel's malaise breaks at the word. "You believe my memory was stolen by…angels?"

Not quite to the point of running from the crazy, Cas nonetheless sounds quite skeptical.

Which strikes Dean as both ironic and hilarious considering all the impassioned speeches he'd given Dean about faith in their past.

"You believe in angels, don't you?" Dean asks. He thinks he could probably let go of Cas, but he's not so inclined. "I mean, you seem pretty involved in your church."

"Of course I believe in angels," Cas says, irritated and Dean hides a smile. There's the conviction Dean remembers. "But why would they want to hurt me? I'm no threat to anyone."

"Actually," Sam interjects, breaking the silence he'd fallen into during the others' weird ménage a trois, "You've made decisions that have changed the course of human history."

The faint pride in Sam's tone makes Dean want to give him a hearty slap on the back.

"Well, that's just ridiculous," Cas denies. For the first time in several minutes, he pulls away from Dean and Dean thinks, _ah, there's the big reaction._ Step by step, Castiel retreats until his back hits the wall and Dean feels the situation slipping out of his control.

"I'm just a waiter. I was just hoping to find my family, my friends. Someone who remembered me, maybe loved me. Not…not this angels and changing the world and having my brain scanned by a woman who pops out of thin air!"

Dean's never seen Castiel this worked up, not even in Heaven's waiting room when he went off about the depressing part of humanity.

"Cas!" Dean's world narrows to a pair of scared blue eyes and he doesn't realize he's moving until there's nothing in his field of vision, but Cas. His hands find Castiel's face, covering his cheeks the same way Anna had just moments before. He feels Cas' breath hitch.

"I know you're scared. I'm sorry this isn't what you expected, but this is your life, ok? And there's some scary shit in it. Trust me, I know." Dean hears the bitterness filter into his voice, but does nothing to stop it. "You got a raw deal. We all did, but we have each other. You do have family and friends. I just need you to stick with me a little longer."

The fear slowly drains out of Castiel's face. Again, Dean is reminded of their last moments together, except this time it's Dean asking for trust when it seems impossible.

And maybe Dean falls just a little bit more in love with Castiel when he turns his cheek slightly into Dean's hand and nods.

"Alright."

"Alright," Dean echoes.

Reality rushes back in and he realizes it's very quiet. Turning his head, Dean checks over his shoulder. Anna and Sam look like a treeful of owls, eyes wide and staring. Dean smirks at them.

"You're gonna get flies in your mouth," he advises Sam, who shuts his mouth and glares at Dean.

"Ha." He turns to Anna. "Do you know how Cas can break the curse?"

She shakes her head.

"Not exactly, no. I was never high enough in the ranks to really know how punishments are doled out. Most of the time, whenever an angel considers disobedience, they're snapped back for…a stern lecture, shall we say?"

"Right. Bible camp, I remember," Dean says, lips curling with distaste.

"Yes. But as bad as that is, it's not really the highest level of punishment," Anna explains, arms crossing over her chest. "You see, there's a difference between an angel who disobeys and an angel who falls. Fallen angels become human, as you know. Those of us who choose that way forget too, but we generally never remember. I was an unusual case and that's why they came after me. That and they knew the other side could use me if they got a hold of me."

"Yeah, so instead of taking care of you, they were sent to kill you," Dean says. Not really Castiel's finest moment, Dean thinks to himself and he shoots Cas a surreptitious glance. Let no one say that Dean looks at Cas through rose-colored glasses. Dean's seen him at his worst _and_ his best.

"It was because of the corruption in the ranks," Anna says. She sounds remarkably forgiving, but then, Dean knows things have straightened out a little upstairs. Which is one of the reasons Anna is still a free agent.

"Normally, fallen angels can't be punished like other angels because they're human. Our Father's most treasured creation. This is not to say that humans can't be punished, of course, but not like angels. It's one of the reasons more angels choose to tear out their grace rather than disobey and remain angelic. I've heard…and this isn't a certainty, but I've heard that angels who choose the second path are given…tailored punishments."

Dean and Sam exchange an uncomfortable glance.

"Meaning?" Sam prompts her.

"Meaning that archangels like to fit the punishment to the crime. If they figured out why Castiel chose to disobey, they might have built his punishment based on that." Anna sighs, heavy and hopeless. "Which is nice information to have, but not really helpful. Even if we could figure out why he disobeyed, it doesn't mean we'll understand the punishment."

"He disobeyed because it was the right thing to do," Dean says. "Because people's lives were at stake and Cas always liked humans."

"Ok, stop."

Dean jumps at Castiel's sudden outburst. It isn't like he forgot Cas was there, but Dean can't quite keep in mind that Castiel doesn't automatically know everything they know.

His face is void of emotion, the kind of blank mask people develop when they have to distance themselves from situations too insane to comprehend. Like say, finding out you're an angel.

"I'm not human?"

Awkward glances fly around the room before Dean steps up, reminding himself yet again that this is his problem.

"I told you it wasn't what you expected."

If looks could kill. Although Dean's relieved to see emotion back in those eyes.

"Let's just pretend for a moment that you aren't all lunatics," Cas says slowly. "If I really am…an angel." He nearly chokes on the word. "If that's true and we're all angels-"

"No, no. Me and Sam aren't angels. Just you and Anna," Dean clarifies and he tries not to smile because it's not like Cas could know any better, but seriously, Dean as an angel is even more hilarious than Dean as a preacher.

"We're humans."

"You're a human and I'm an angel," Cas says, looking down at the floor as he puzzles through the confusion written into every line of his face. "And we knew each other because…I watched over you?" he asks, lifting questioning eyes to Dean's face again.

"Sort of," Dean says, grinning. "Though you didn't, you know, perch on my shoulder or anything."

Cas doesn't crack a smile at the joke. In fact, he looks positively shaken.

Again, clearly not what Cas expected. Which leads Dean to wonder exactly what Castiel expected of their relationship. And why he can read the slightest hint of disappointment under Castiel's shock.

"Even so," Cas finally says, his Adam's apple twitching as he swallows hard several times in quick succession. "The way it felt when you were inside my mind," Cas says to Anna. "I could _sense_ you. If you were looking for me, how come you couldn't sense me for years?"

It's a great point.

"Yeah, how come that?" Dean asks.

"I can only barely sense you now, Cas," Anna answers, chagrined. "I don't know. It's like your grace has been…dampened. I had no idea you were with Dean until I was in the room. I might have known you were here if I'd been visiting this town, but otherwise, no. It makes sense, now that I think about it. If you were to live as a human, you'd have to be as far removed from your grace as possible. Otherwise, you wouldn't need to sleep or eat or any like that."

"See, that's what I was thinking earlier," Dean says triumphantly.

"Dean," Sam says with a suddenness that sends Dean on instant alert. "The demon. What if the demon sensed Cas?"

He may be a second behind Sam in this connection, but Dean catches on quickly and his stomach drops. Why it's taken him this long to make the connection, Dean doesn't know and he kind of wishes he hadn't because even without his memory, Dean know how Cas is going to react when he understands that these deaths might be because of him.

He hears Anna ask about the demon, hears Sam explain the situation to her, but only just barely because most of his attention is focused on Cas, on the way his puzzled confusion melts into horrified realization.

"It's my fault?" he whispers. "All of them… _Peter_ …they're gone because of me?"

Devastation upsets his balance and he tumbles into the wall, palms smacking it in an effort to hold himself upright. His eyes are fever bright with grief and denial and Dean can't understand how the Father ever thought Cas didn't show his emotions on his face.

"If there is a demon," Anna says, tone measured and thoughtful. "It's certainly possible it would might have sensed and hunted Castiel. Angel blood is very powerful."

Cas makes a gagging noise in the back of his throat. Dean shoots Anna a quelling glare. For an angel that spent years as a human, she can be a little insensitive. The last thing Cas needs now is a reminder that his friend is dead because of something he can't help.

"Look, we don't know if there really is a demon. It's the real reason we were here because the murders were suspicious. It's what me and Sam do. We hunt down evil bastards and kill them. If there is a demon after you, it's not your fault. Demons are just evil. They're sick and twisted. And we're not going to let the son of a bitch kill anyone else anyway."

A heavy silence fills the room as Castiel digests this new bit of information. His revulsion slowly melts into a kind of pained determination that Dean already doesn't like before Castiel's eye snap up from the ground and says in his gravest voice, "Then if you want to catch it, you'll need my help."

Just as he thought, Dean does not like this.

 

**************

 

"I don't like this," Dean says for the tenth time. Lawrence…Castiel. He must remember his name is Castiel. Or the less regal moniker Cas that Dean seems to favor.

Castiel doesn't know which word he likes better, but he does enjoy the strange little thrill he gets whenever Dean uses 'Cas'.

Although he wishes Dean would be quiet right now.

They are strolling down a darkened street, through stacks of shadow. When Castiel turns his head, he can barely make out Dean's face. Mostly he can see the pinpricks of light where his eyes are. Or see his mouth moving as he complains about their plan.

But Castiel doesn't see how they could do things any differently. If a demon is looking for him, then they must make him available to draw the demon out. Cas understands that Dean doesn't like this plan because he worries for Castiel's safety.

Castiel doesn't blame him. If he's an angel, and Castiel is still having trouble accepting that, he is a diminished one. He doesn't really have a way of protecting himself, but he trusts Dean. He's seen the weapons Dean carries on his person, knows the kind of damage they can do.

Plus, Sam is also nearby, hidden close enough to join them at a moment's notice. Anna is no longer in the town because she feared the demon wouldn't dare approach a full-blown angel, but Castiel knows she will come if they call for her.

They reach the end of the street, the same one on which the first victim met his fate and turn a corner.

A old streetlamp shines a weak beam into their faces and Castiel sees that Dean is scowling as he searches the street.

"Do you see anything?" Castiel whispers to him.

"Why're you whispering?" Dean asks in a normal tone. "We want the bastard to know we're here," he adds in a louder tone, which echoes down the small space between two nearby buildings.

"No," he says to Castiel with a sigh. "Let's just sit here for a minute. Let the asshat come to us," he says and sits on the bench under the lamp. Castiel joins him. Neither speaks for several minutes.

Though he knows it's rude, Castiel can't keep his eyes off Dean's face for very long. He's a very handsome man, the sort Castiel sees on the television shows he occasionally watches. But all those men never interested Castiel. Nor the women. He can't figure what it is about Dean that makes his eyes trace over every line and angle of his face, down the bridge of his nose and across his lips. His eyes catch on Dean's scar once more and he is overwhelmed by curiosity.

"How did you come by that?" Castiel asks, only realizing after he's done so that Dean might be sensitive about it. He doesn't have time to retract the question before Dean is answering.

"I've pissed off some pretty powerful creatures," he says flippantly. "I tried to stop one in particular from killing Sam and he repaid me by trying to rip off my face."

Castiel shivers. Such a dismissive tone for a horrific event. He's struck by the urge to draw a finger over the scar, but he doesn't. Their relationship is not what Castiel thought it might be. Instead, Castiel is an angel sent to protect Dean.

An angel that failed in his duty, apparently. Guilt freezes in his chest, sending his gaze away from Dean. His hands clench in his lap.

"Hey, you ok?"

"Well, well. Now this is unexpected. The Dean Winchester."

A new voice, cold and cruel, rings out over the empty street. Dean leaps up from his seat, pushing himself in front of Castiel to face the woman sauntering around the corner of the street they just exited. Castiel's stomach twists. This just keeps getting worse and worse.

It's Betsy.

The demon turns her beauty into a frightful mockery. The way she moves her body, languid and sensual, is at odds with Betsy's sweet innocence.

Anger consumes Castiel's vision and he is grateful for Dean's presence because otherwise, he might have done something reckless.

"Do I know you?" Dean asks.

Castiel didn't think he'd ever hear Dean's voice sound so glacial. He shivers again.

"Well, we've never been formally introduced, but who doesn't know the man who stopped the apocalypse?" She wags a finger at him. "You've been very bad for business, Dean."

Castiel feels Dean's body tense, knows he's getting ready to fling an insult at her, but the demon doesn't give him a chance. Her gaze swivels to Castiel and she shakes her head.

"I might have known it was you. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it, Dean?"

Glancing at Dean, she makes a face of obviously fake surprise.

"But wait a minute! If you're here with him, that must mean…" Betsy's dark brown eyes fill with malice as she looks back at Castiel.

"You're the angel Castiel. The one that yanked Dean from hell. You know, at one point, there was quite a bounty on your head. When Lucifer was still out and about. You and Sam Winchester. The Chosen one's two greatest weaknesses."

It's too much for Castiel to comprehend. This demon knew him because he…he pulled Dean from hell? And Lucifer, the Lucifer, wanted to capture him?

Castiel looks at Dean, but Dean is focused solely on the demon, a look of such pure hatred on his face that Castiel feels sick to his stomach.

"Yeah, too bad I threw his ass back in prison," Dean spits. "So if we could skip the small talk, I'd appreciate it. It's been far too long since I smoked a demon."

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Sam moving towards them, slowly as if he is waiting for Dean to make his move.

"Welcome to the show, Sam," Betsy says without turning her head.

"Well, come on then," Dean challenges, holding his arms outright. "We haven't got all night. There's something on TV I want to watch later."

"Very funny," Betsy snaps. "And if you think I'm moving from this spot into any Devil's traps, you're not as good at this as your press would suggest."

Castiel sighs. There are a number of those traps strewn around the areas where the demon killed before, but Dean had admitted he didn't think they would be able to herd the demon into one because it's harder to hide the traps out in open streets.

"Fine by me," Dean says and he nods at Sam. Sam begins to run at the demon, a bottle of holy water in one hand and a knife in other while Dean lifts a shotgun to distract her.

Then suddenly Dean and Sam go flying and that's when Castiel realizes that this demon is far more powerful than either brother anticipated.

Sam lands with a sick crunching sound twenty feet away. Dean is not so lucky. The demon flings a hand at him, a delighted smile turning her face truly ugly and Dean's back strikes the brick wall of the building behind their bench.

Hands grasping at his throat as the demon strangles him, Dean slides up the wall until he is hovering nearly six feet off the ground.

The demon is saying something, but Castiel doesn't understand it. His senses blur, reality turns to nonsense and its worse than panic, darker than rage.

The demon is hurting Dean, _killing_ Dean and if Castiel doesn't do something, he'll lose Dean again.

Forever.

Alone without Dean. Alone like all these years, like all the thousands of years before. It grows within him, builds and builds, stretching and fighting to escape.

His soul catches fire.

 

***************

 

This is exactly why Dean hadn't liked this plan.

The demon bitch is closing his throat, Sam is staggering to his feet and clutching his ribs too far away to reach Dean in time and Castiel is frozen to the spot.

To his surprise, Dean is more angry than scared.

It's not that he wants to die. It's just that he's already done it several times now and he's fairly certain he's not going downstairs this time. So, he's sort of made peace with the idea of dying.

He's just pissed he's doing it before he's had more than a day with Cas. And that day without Cas really knowing Dean.

It's depressing.

Dean struggles against the demon because if he's going down, he's going down fighting.

Maybe Sam'll get Anna's attention in enough time that she'll be able to save Sam and Castiel's life.

It's a bit of comfort anyway.

With extreme effort, Dean moves his head until he can see Cas.  If Dean could, he'd gasp at the expression on Cas' face. It's wrath, plain and simple. Righteous anger. He looks every bit like the angels described in the Bible, the ancient merciless warriors that could destroy whole countries in the blink of an eye.

A demon is killing Dean and it's Castiel that terrifies him.

Energy begins to crackle in the air, tossing and buffeting Castiel's hair and clothes and that's when it happens.

Huge shadowy shapes explode out from either side of Cas' body, larger and a hundred times more fucking scary than they were in that barn years ago.

The wings lift and stretch as if glad to be free of their confinement. They are ragged and dark, almost black in color. Feathers stick up out of place here and there, a testament to the battles they've seen.

Dean feels like he could stare at them for hours, but then they are gone and so is Cas. Dean panics for a split second, but then Cas reappears behind the demon and grabs her by the shoulder. Her hold on Dean breaks and Dean braces himself for the fall, but it never comes. Cas holds him up, almost as an afterthought it seems because he is glaring at the demon.

"You will not hurt anyone again," he commands and lays his palm on her forehead. It's a variation on the exorcism Dean's seen angels use before because after the golden light shines out the woman's mouth and eyes, she falls limp the ground, coughing and very clearly alive.

"Lawrence?" she asks weakly.

Dean's heart skips a beat. He didn't realize Castiel knew this woman.

"You're safe now, Betsy," Cas answers gently, stroking fingers through her hair. He helps her sit on the ground and says something else to her, more comforting words before turning his attention back to where Dean is still pinned to the wall.

"A little help here, please?" Dean says, but the teasing tone doesn't quite make it into his voice. If the wings weren't a good enough clue, the way Castiel is looking at him leaves Dean in no doubt that Cas remembers exactly who and what he is.

It's not just the recognition that sets Dean's heart thumping a hundred miles an hour. It's the absolute hunger that is turning Cas' eyes as black as his wings.

"Dean," he says and Dean thinks he can actually feel Castiel's voice vibrating through his body. Cas walks toward him as he slowly lowers Dean's body and as soon as Dean's feet hit the ground, Castiel's arms are around his waist.

Dean thinks it's a victory hug until Castiel's lips cover his and his shock is enough to keep his motionless for a moment.

Then it hits him, really hits him that it's over finally. Those lonely years are over. His angel is back and he's giving Dean a hell of a kiss.

So Dean gets with the program and throws his arms around Cas' shoulders, tugging him so hard that Cas falls against him, pushing Dean into the wall. It hurts, but Dean doesn't care.

It's like waking up after a very long slumber.

There's a lot of cleaning up and explaining to do after they kill the demon. They take Betsy back to Castiel's apartment and call Father Dean, who brings Colin along to help settle her. Dean kind of starts wondering about those two and makes a mental note to ask Cas about it later.

Cas explains as best he can what happened and with Betsy's verification that something had taken over her body, they manage to convince the other two of the truth. He leaves out the bit about being an angel and since Betsy can't really remember how she got control of her body back, none of them are the wiser.

It's very early in the morning by the time by the time they drag themselves back to the hotel where they find Anna waiting impatiently for them.

"Finally! I was so worried! Why didn't you call me?"

Dean opts not to tell her how much she sounds like a nagging housewife.

"Cas saved the day."

"Cas?" Anna looks at Castiel and a happy light fills her eyes.

"Oh, I see. Welcome back, Castiel."

"Thank you, Anna," he says formally, but Dean sees the smile hiding just under the surface.

"How did you break the curse?"

It's something Dean's been wondering himself, but hadn't wanted to ask. He wasn't sure if Castiel wanted to talk about it.

"I don't think the archangels knew exactly what I was feeling when they created this punishment," Cas says lightly.

"What do you mean?" Sam asks.

"I was only allowed to remember if I fell in love," Castiel answers. Anna sighs a soft sad 'oh', but Dean doesn't quite get it. Or at least can't quite get past the 'Castiel in love' thing.

Surely he meant…well, because he remembered when Dean was in danger, so who else could it be? But he didn't want to presume and after all, if it was Dean, it's not like the Lawrence-Cas knew him long enough to really fall in love-

"What they didn't understand was that I was already in love when they punished me. I didn't fall in love with you in a day, Dean, but when you were in danger, I remembered I loved you," Castiel continues.

He says it in a bland matter-of-fact tone.

"Ok, maybe I'm just being stupid, but I don't get it," Sam says.

Dean gives Sam a mental pat on the back because he'd ask the same thing if he could string two words together.

"The archangels guessed I disobeyed because I was becoming intrigued by the feelings of love; that I was in danger of falling in love with Dean. So they removed me from Dean and Dean from me. They stripped me of my memories and dampened my grace, effectively turning me human. If I never fell in love, I'd live a human life alone without the one thing that I sought when I disobeyed. If I did fall in love, I would remember I was an angel and then be forced to give up the person I loved."

Dean finds his voice quickly at that.

"Wait a second. Why'd you have to give up the person you loved?"

When Castiel looks at him, he suddenly understands Anna's sympathetic sigh. Regret and fierce longing shine in Castiel's eyes.

"Angels can't love humans in this manner without threat of punishment. Threat of death, to be more precise. That's the punishment. In effect, the archangels were daring me to fall in love, so I would be faced with this choice. Give you up, risk death or fall and be reborn as an infant, again without you. And either way, I wouldn't be able to help you anymore,” he says and his tone is so very flat as if he can’t let the emotion escape in his voice or he couldn’t handle talking at all.

"That's just…" Sam trails off.

"Fucking twisted," Dean finishes for him.

He feels sick inside. For some reason, Dean has assumed that everything will be ok now. That since Castiel has remembered him, they can be together. It never once occurs to him that love was against the rules. His happiness is exchanged for anger yet again and Dean is sick to death of these yo-yoing emotions.

"Castiel." Anna's eyes sparkle with excitement. "No, you don't understand," she says as if they'd been arguing. "Things are different now. Remember my friends? They could help you. They could help send Jimmy to rest. You might be able to stay in this body and be with Dean."

"No." Dean is shocked that the word actually comes out of his mouth. The cautious smile stealing over Castiel's face is wiped away. There is an awkward and tense silence, then Castiel turns to Anna and Sam.

"Could we please be alone for a moment?" Anna gives Castiel a long searching look, then nods and flaps away. Sam takes the slower path, stopping to squeeze Dean's arm on the way out the door and then Dean is alone with Castiel. Who looks pretty angry.

"Do you know what your greatest fault is, Dean?" he asks.

Dean raises an eyebrow at him.

"I'm just too pretty?"

The joke falls completely flat.

"You're a hypocrite," Castiel says bluntly.

"Excuse me?"

"Your father sold his soul to save your life and you were so angry, yet you did the same thing for Sam a year later. You won't let anyone sacrifice themselves for you, but you give and give of yourself until there's nothing left. Not even your soul," Castiel says furiously.

His arms hang stiff at his sides and a hint of that energy Dean felt when Castiel's wings appeared sizzles in the air before him.

"That's not…"

Except Dean doesn't really know what it's not. It's certainly true that he was angry with John for selling his soul and of course, he did do the same thing for Sammy. But it's not the same.

"That was to save his life. My life isn't in danger. What if you become human and it doesn't work out? You've already given up everything because I asked you once and look how that worked out."

"I'm willing to risk it," Castiel says. It's like he didn't listen to Dean at all.

"But I'm not-"

"You are." Faster than Dean can follow, Cas is in his space, body pressed against Dean's. "I think you're worth it. I've already lived four years without you. I don't want to suffer even another minute in the same manner."

"Cas-" Dean feels himself growing weak against Castiel's passion. It's so hard to resist reaching out and taking what he's wanted for so long. "What if the archangels don’t let you stay in this body?”

He swallows hard and then asks the question that has him really worried.

"What if you regret it?"

Cas smiles. "What if I don't?"

Dean rolls his eyes and huffs.

"You're a douchebag."

"Perhaps. I've just been told I might not have to suffer a punishment I don't think I deserved in the first place. You'll forgive me if I'm insistent." His laughing smile turns to steeled determination. "This is my choice, Dean."

Slipping one arm around Dean's waist, Castiel cups Dean’s cheek with his free hand.

"I'm doing this. The only question is, will you have me when I do?"

All of Dean's life, he's looked out for others. For Sammy and for his dad. For all those people who were threatened by evil and didn't know how to fight it. He's saved the world, for crying out loud and now someone Dean loves is looking him in the eye and asking Dean to be a little selfish.

Maybe it's time Dean took something for himself.

Dean reaches for Castiel and Castiel falls.

**Author's Note:**

> Father Dean and Colin are in love. Just FYI.


End file.
